


50 Pieces of Gold

by callmecasandra



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Carver POV, Ensemble Cast, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-03 08:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1737989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmecasandra/pseuds/callmecasandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>50 sovereigns is hard to come by, especially when you've got expenses. Hawke takes up the oldest profession.</p><p>A story about choices, family, friendship, love, and the immutable bond of siblinghood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sister came home with groceries. Carver hadn't been suspicious until then. He'd been angry, sure, but not suspicious. He didn't like being left behind when she went out on her little adventures, and she'd gotten better about respecting that. They'd reached a kind of cease-fire in their perpetual warfare, he'd thought, after the business about the will. The letters.

But she'd started leaving him at home again, recently. 

It had started after they'd found the note about Gamlen's debts. It had been in their room; Carver couldn't decide if Gamlen had been hiding it from Mother's nosiness or attempting to guilt them into doing something about it. But sister had picked it up, read it, and sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. He wondered if she knew how it emphasised her birthmark. But then... how could she not know? 

But then the note disappeared, and when he asked her about it, she'd admitted that she'd covered it. He'd given her a hard time about it. They been in the Rose – once, and business, not pleasure – and there was Gamlen, as though he still lived in Hightown, regardless of what he said to Mother. No wonder Carver preferred the Hanged Man. 

It was also the first he'd heard that she was taking jobs without bring him again. 

He should have gotten a clue when Fenris denied any knowledge of any job. Sister wasn't an idiot. She was a mage playing at passing for a rogue; she didn't generally go anywhere without a brute with a big sword to back her up. When Varric said that he hadn't passed the job onto Hawke, alarm bells ought to have rung across his mind. By the time Aveline had looked uncomfortable and said that his presence hadn't been required, he should have known exactly what was going on. 

But it was the damnable groceries that did it. 

They put money towards the groceries, she and Carver, once they had money of their own. They had their pride, damn it, whatever Gamlen thought. It wasn't their fault that indentured servitude had mostly paid in getting them into Kirkwall, keeping Meeran from breaking Gamlen's face, and in silence. 

By the time the year was up, they'd both been happy to see Meeran's back. 

And for all Carver bitched at Varric, the work he found them at least paid, and they got to decide for themselves if they'd take it. And Varric came along. And didn't give the orders. And... well, everything was different, when Carver got right down to it. 

So they'd been putting money towards groceries. Sister gave it to Mother, because only a fool trusted Gamlen with money, honestly. Though maybe now they could, since apparently Sister was going to cover his debts instead of letting him get the shit kicked out of him. 

Sister put her hands to all kinds of work – Andraste's ass, they both had -- but no way was she doing grocery runs for Mother, not now. She'd just have given Mother the money, and gone to bed to sleep off the exhaustion from the job, or to the Hanged Man if she was too wound up from it. 

So if she wouldn't give the money to Mother, that meant she'd done something to get it that she didn't think Mother would accept. And since they handed over money made from killing people, from selling stolen goods, even coins they'd looted from corpses -- well now. That really only left one thing, didn't it?

“We need to take a walk,” Carver said tightly, as Sister put the groceries down on the table. 

She turned to him, surprised, but nodded. 

“Where are you going?” Mother asked, confused.

“Out,” Carver said, walking toward the door. 

Sister shrugged, but she joined him. “Where _are_ we going?” she asked as they descended the steps. 

“Dunno. Does it matter? You're plying your trade in the streets. There's no reason not to talk about it there, is there?”

He heard the sharp intake of breath. “Who told you? Did you see me?”

“Nobody told me. Who would?” He didn't bother to keep the bitterness out of his voice. 

“Carver, I didn't tell anyone I didn't have to.” Her voice was tight, unlike her rein on her temper. That was slipping. Good. He was boiling mad now, and spoiling for a fight. It was just as well that they were well used to having screaming bloody rows all but under their breath. 

“And who exactly did you have to tell?”

“Only Merrill. Merrill knows because I asked to use her house to get ready. I can go out in armor, change at her place, come home in armor. For Mother's sake.”

“And mine,” Carver growled. 

“I didn't think you'd care for the idea very much, no. Was it Aveline? Varric? No. Varric wouldn't. Aveline then.”

“You just said you only told Merrill.”

“And you know bloody well Varric knows everything that goes on in this city and that Aveline spies on us.”

“True. No. No one told me.” Except that they kind of had, if only he'd been paying attention. “And I didn't see you. I figured it out. The groceries gave you away. What could Sister have done that would be so bad, I asked myself, that she wouldn't hand her mother the money from? That she couldn't tell her brother?”

“Ah,” she said softly. “Let's hope Mother's not so observant, then.”

Carver snorted. Mother only saw what she wanted to. “Where on earth are you working? Please tell me it's not --” Lowtown. The Hanged Man. The Rose. _Please tell me I'm wrong, that this is all a misunderstanding._

“The Docks. I'd rather not run into my uncle while I'm... out.”

“Why not? It's how you pay his bills, isn't it?”

She tipped her head at him, a silent _touché_. “Please tell me you won't tell Mother.”

“I'm not going to have to, because you're going to bloody well stop.”

“Carver,” Sister looked at him with a pity he hadn't seen on her face since they were children. “I'm a grown woman. You can't stop me. All you can do is shame me. And it won't change anything. I need fifty sovereigns. And I'd like to eat, besides.”

The rage he felt at her look shrank back at her words. “So tell Varric we won't do it.”

“No. You know it's our only chance.”

He did know. He'd said as much himself the day they'd finally gotten the meeting with Bartrand. And they'd done so much already to try to get the money together. Was this so much worse, really, whatever Mother thought? Neither of them were virgins, and at least no one would be likely to try to kill them while they went at it. Still, it wasn't exactly safe, being a doxy. Drunk pirates and the occasional slaver were real risks, down on the docks at night. “I won't tell Mother. On one condition.”

“Name it.” It wasn't agreement, not yet, not in that tone of voice. 

Carver smiled inwardly at the sound. “You take me with you.”

Sister's eyes went wide, but she recovered her poise. “Oh, yes. You think badly of me for being a whore, and then think it better that I would turn you into one as well?” But Carver had her now. The scathing tone of voice meant she was on the defensive. 

“You're on your own down on the docks. You get in a scrap, you really going to be able to keep magic out of it? If it's that or your life? And then let's say a templar sees you. Finds the knives you keep on you. How the fuck is that going to look?” He'd warned her about it before, playing at being a rogue. It wasn't a bad disguise, if she never got caught. But it was a disastrous one if she did. “You need a bodyguard. Lots of whores have one.”

“Whores have pimps, Carver,” Sister said, her tone still angry. 

He shrugged. “I don't give a fuck what your johns think of me, as long as they don't think I'll let them get anyway with anything.”

“You think Mother would like this any better than the alternative?”

No, she wouldn't. She might like it less, in fact. She's blame Sister for it, of course, but Mother still thought Carver somehow needed protecting. Him. Who'd enlisted in the King's army and fought at Blighted Ostagar and fucking risked being hanged as a deserter to get his family out of Lothering before the darkspawn came. “I'm not going to tell Mother, regardless of what you decide. Like I haven't been keeping your secrets all my life.”

Sister nodded, face serious, blowing out a long breath. Thinking what to say next. 

Best to catch her before she found it. “But I won't eat the food you bring home.”

“Why?” her brow furrowed, and she was a strange mix of tired and angry and confused now. “You plainly don't care about the whoring.”

“Oh, I care,” he admitted. He might as well. He was definitely going to need to work through that before she took him out, or he'd take the head off the first man who approached his sister. “But that's not the point. You say this needs doing. All right. So we'll do it. We've done worse. But you're not doing it without me. You're not putting men's cocks in your mouth to put food in mine and then telling me I can't keep you safe while you do. I'm a grown man, and doing less would shame _me_.”

A long breath again, and she met his eyes. “All right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are like gold sovereigns.
> 
> And love.
> 
> And I really do want to hear what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Days passed, and Carver initially thought his nerves would eventually start to settle down after that conversation. But that didn't happen, and it reminded him horribly of how he'd been more scared after he'd joined the king's army then before – because now that he was _in_ getting out was no longer an option, and the full weight of what he'd agreed to had hit him. 

Carver had never been good at anticipation. Cutting the switch was always worse then just bending over and taking a few whacks with the damn thing.

He told himself that as he waited each day to see if this would be the day his sister would come to him and tell him that it was all right, Varric had found them another job. Or if this would be the night his sister would come to him to tell him to come if he was coming. Er, unfortunate turn of phrase that that was. 

So the feeling of being on tenterhooks never really faded. Sister read books and practised her magic in their bedroom while he practised sword drills and took care of the dog. 

Mother and Gamlen bickered near-constantly – honestly, they were worse than he and Sister – but he could no longer escape to the Hanged Man because he couldn't stomach the idea of seeing his friends. He couldn't figure out if it was worse if they thought he didn't know, and still tried to keep it from him, pitying him all the while, or if they did know, because, Andraste's ass, not one of them knew how to keep their mouth shut. Varric might say little, but he'd say something. Isabela, good lord, he couldn't begin to imagine the gleeful mockery she'd rain down. Aveline would probably try to get them to _stop_. Anders would talk about diseases, and bitch about healing, as if they didn't pay enough towards his clinic. As if they hadn't murdered a bunch of men in a fucking Chantry for him. 

And Merrill would just ask questions. 

Well. There was always Fenris. Who already judged them so harshly that the idea that his sister was spreading her legs for gold so he could eat could hardly be worse than what Fenris already thought of them.

Carver must have made a noise at that point, because Dane barked cheerfully in response. Carver sighed and turned for home. 

When he got there, sister was getting dressed in her leathers. It turned his stomach to ice to see. “I'm going to see if Varric has anything for us. Are you coming with?”

He shook his head, and she nodded, turning back to her buckles. She never said, _You'll have to face them sometime_ , but he knew she was thinking it. Void, _he_ was thinking it. 

He sighed. “All right. I'll go.”

She looked up, surprised, and he felt a flash of irritation. He knew it was irrational. He did. She offered him a smile as she reached for the door. “Time to face the music.”

He smiled despite himself. She'd said that, too, often enough, but not for years. _Time to face the music_ was a battle cry against _Wait until your father gets home_ , and despite everything, it warmed something inside of him. They could face anything together. 

They didn't speak as they walked the short distance to the Hanged Man. There wasn't really anything to say. Well. That wasn't true. There was lots to say, but nothing that could be done about any of it. 

He tried to avoid Isabela's eye as they headed for the stairs, but she was always sharp, and ready to pounce, and they barely made it to Varric's room ahead of her. “Sooo,” she drawled, “figured it out, did you?”

“I was starting to wonder if you'd drowned yourself in the harbour, Junior,” Varric said, but under the joviality there was a tone of question. Questions Carver would really rather avoid, thanks. 

“I suspect it would be easier than listening to this,” Fenris said drily from the corner. “It's done. What would you ask of him?”

“Any jobs, Varric?” Sister asked quietly, and Carver was suddenly angry in truth. Bad enough that they would tease him, but to do while she was _right there_ , was as much as saying she was doing something worthy of ridicule. Which, yes, she was, they both were, but honestly, it was hardly the worst thing they'd done. Isabela did as much herself, she just didn't get paid for it. 

“I'm afraid not, Hawke,” Varric said sympathetically. 

No doubt Varric could guess how close to the bone they were. Carver was hyper aware of the pantry now, in a way he hadn't been even when they'd been indentured to Meeran. There were maybe two meals left, if Mother stretched them. Mother generally did, but she also didn't know how tight things were, so she might not. They'd all gotten used to having full bellies again.

“Thanks Varric,” Sister said, as if it didn't mean anything. Carver wanted to scream. He already knew tonight was the night. Tonight was the night, and he wasn't ready. To the room she said, “I'm going to head.”

There was a collective pause, as if everyone had suddenly drawn in a breath, and then Isabela spoke. “Oh, stay here. It's card night! You can work off some of Puppy's accumulated debts if you must.”

Sister actually looked amused at this. “Thank you Isabela, but no.”

“Gallard's been talking about Gamlen,” Fenris said quietly. “Word's gotten around.”

“Well, I knew that was a possibility,” Sister said tiredly.

“We could go shut him up,” Carver said, angry again. And it wouldn't even matter to Gamlen. Void, he'd probably think it his due for not telling Mother what Sister was doing!

Sister looked at him wryly. “That's also a possibility. But let's not.” 

_But let's not_ was an old code. When they were kids, it had meant, _We'll never get away with it_. He supposed it still did, even if now what it really meant was something like _it's not worth the trouble_ or _it would be futile to do so_ or maybe _even if we win, we'll lose_. Gallard was too powerful. They could probably kill him, sure. But it wouldn't be the end of it, not even nearly, and everyone here knew it. Carver felt a flush rising up his chest. It was pointless bluster. He should have kept his mouth shut. Showing you cared too much was just gave people more ammunition against you. 

Isabela never could let tension rest. When her hand dropped to her hip, he covered his face with his hands, mostly so he wouldn't reach for his sword. “His debts really are very extensive,” Isabela continued, as if Fenris hadn't spoken, a laugh on her voice. 

“And you cheat. And neither of you is going to corner the other in a dark alley over it, so I'm not too worried,” Sister said. 

“Mmm,” Isabela purred. “I suppose I _could_ corner _him_ in a dark alley. What do you say, Puppy?”

“I say, 'No thank you, Isabela',” Carver managed, finally looking at her, an odd mix of embarrassed by her and grateful. For all of her nonsense, she wasn't really treating them any differently than she ever had. 

“You cannot tell me you'd forego a debt,” Isabela teased. “You're Ferelden, and I know Fereldens, of old.”

“Yes, the broke dog-lord and the drunk pirate, a Kirkwall parable,” Sister added drily. “Thank you Isabela, but no. I think I'd rather go find some _paying_ customers to sell my dubious virtue to.”

It suddenly occurred to Carver how lucky it was for Isabela that she was good at sleight of hand, for she had no skill at keeping emotion from her face, at all. Written across her face was a strange mix of sympathy and admiration, and the set of her shoulders said _I tried_ , as she turned toward Varric. 

And then he knew what they had been offering. If one of them had said yes, Isabela would have taken them back to her room for a quick tumble, and when they'd come out, she'd have bought a friendly round of drinks. And as they'd drunk, they'd play cards, and put aside why they'd come in in the first place, and Varric would order up some food without anyone noticing and it would be something suspiciously breaded and sopping in oil, but it would be hot, and everyone would be too drunk to care, and everyone would have a bit. And the hungry ones would be too drunk to notice that the rest were _only_ having a bit, or put it down to the fact that nobody _really_ wanted to eat in the Hanged Man. 

He'd seen it before, or something near enough to it anyway. Sister and Varric had done it for Merrill, when she first came to Kirkwall, still did it for Anders, sometimes, on the odd nights he showed up for cards, did it for Fenris, once or twice, Isabela draped over him the whole time so he didn't notice what his friends where doing.

He'd seen it before, but he'd never understood it. He'd thought it a revelry. There was rarely anything to celebrate in Kirkwall, but all the more reason to do so when the chance came. And there was always something to commiserate over. Of course he hadn't minded that not everyone could afford to pitch in; void, he'd barely been able to. But that's not what it had been. It had been – after a battle, you gave freely of your potions to those who fought with you who didn't have any, because that's what you did. Because they'd fought with you, or because one day it might be you, or because you couldn't _not_.

But it was one thing to _give_. Taking was always harder. And it was one thing to swallow your pride for something that might save your life, or a limb, or save you limping back miles to collapse in bed and recover the slow way. It was another to do it because you were hungry. There was no glory in that. 

And just like that, he was angry again. He wanted to rail that their friends thought they needed their pity. He wanted to rail against the chain of events that led them to actually being in a position for their friends to pity. They weren't Merrill, fresh from Sundermount, or Anders, unwilling to turn away those who couldn't pay, or Fenris, hunted by slavers. They'd been here a year, and worked hard, and it didn't mean a damn thing. 

But he was angry, too, at how much he wanted to catch his sister's eye, and say, “One round of cards before we go?” It would buy them one more night. Mother could feed Gamlen and herself, and eat the leftovers tomorrow. Tomorrow Varric might find them a job. And if not, well, they were no worse off then they were right now. But he didn't, and she turned for the stairs.

“I'll deal you in, Junior,” Varric said lightly. “You can run up more imaginary debts on Isabela's tab.”

“No, thanks, Varric,” Carver said as he turned to follow Sister. “Got a job to get to.”

He left it at that, but as he left he heard Fenris say, “Fasta vass,” which he knew was some kind of Tevinter swear. 

“You don't mean that,” Varric said. 

“Not of them, no,” Fenris admitted. “Us, maybe.”

“Well, shit,” Isabela said unhappily.

And that's as much as Carver heard, because he kept walking. As they made for Merrill's, he wondered if they'd assume he, too, had turned doxy, or if they'd guess the truth. 

He wasn't sure which was worse.


	3. Chapter 3

When they got to Merrill's, Sister let herself in, because Merrill only barred the door when she was sleeping, and couldn't seem to understand why a friend wouldn't just walk into your home. As not walking in would be like telling Merrill they weren't friends, he and Sister had quickly adapted. Merrill had adapted, too, after all, accepting that Gamlen did not feel the same way. 

“Oh,” she thrilled on seeing his face. “Do we have a job?”

“ _We_ do,” Carver said morosely. 

“Oh,” Merrill said again, looking between them. “Well, your things are where you left them, Hawke.”

“My thanks, Merrill,” Sister said, heading out of the front room. 

“Do you want to change too?” Merrill asked Carver.

“No. I'm not – doing that. Just body guarding. Making sure nothing happens to her. While. You know.”

Merrill looked both confused by, but accepting of, this answer. “I have tea, if you'd like some.”

He remembered how when she got to Kirkwall first, all she'd had was boiled water, but she'd offer it to them all the same, and even when her shabby hospitality had embarrassed her, she hadn't forgotten her obligations. So, even though her tea tasted like grass, he could never quite bring himself to say _no_. “Thanks, Merrill.”

He caught a whiff as she was pouring. “Is this... rosehips?”

“Yes! Aveline brought it by. Said it reminded her of home. Dalish mostly use it in medicine, but it does smell lovely doesn't it?”

“I haven't had this since before I left for Ostagar,” Carver admitted, his brow furrowing in reminiscence. “There was a sister there in the Chantry who'd make it. You could buy it at the gate, it went to the poor box. It wasn't always rosehips. She had a few different things she'd make, depending on the time of year. There was one with lavender that Sister liked...” Merrill was staring him, and he trailed off. “What is it?”

“I was just wondering: why do you always call Hawke 'Sister'? Obviously you're not going to call her Hawke, you're a Hawke too. But why not call her by her real name?” Whatever his face showed, she must have interpreted as offence. “Creators, is it that it really is her name?”

“Oh,” Carver said. “No. It's not. Well. Sort of. It's the only thing Bethany and I ever called her. When we were born, Mother and Father took to calling her 'Big Sister'. To get her used to the idea.”

“What idea?”

“I dunno. That she wasn't the center of the universe any more? It didn't work out that way.”

“She does seem to take her role in your family very seriously, lethallin,” Merrill said carefully. Lethallin – he knew that. Merrill had told him it meant – oh yes. Something like clansman, or cousin. 

Carver sighed. “I know.”

“You both do,” Merrill said. 

“I try,” Carver sighed. “Anyway, by the time we could talk, that's what we called her. Father started calling her by name again, but it never really took root. Unless she was in trouble. Even now, Mother usually calls her 'Darling'.” 

Merrill rested her elbows on her knees. “I suppose your real name is whatever people call you.”

“Maker, I hope not,” Carver said. “Isabela calls me Puppy.”

“She calls me Kitten, and I don't even have a tattoo. Well. Not of a kitten. Vallaslin, of course.”

Carver laughed, and drank some of the tea, now that it had cooled a bit. He'd always thought it smelled nicer than it tasted, but that didn't stop the wave of nostalgia that poured down his throat with the tea. “Thank you, Merrill,” he managed. “This is lovely.”

“Oh, you're more than welcome, Carver -” Merrill began, but Sister walked into the room in a dress that rivalled Isabela's for sheer reveal. Mostly because it was mostly sheer. It was a little longer, and the skirt had a shorter slit on only one side, but the material was thin, with an overlay of lace. It was the color of wine, like her birthmark, and she wore a black corset laced tighter than Isabela's. 

Someone else might have said she looked cheap, but all he could think was how much the outfit must have cost. “Since when do you have a corset?” he blurted. 

“Since I nicked it from the Rose,” she said tartly. “When we were searching Idunna's room. The dress comes from there too.”

“The dress used to be a pair of pillowcases,” Merrill added cheerfully.

That explained a lot, actually. And Sister would nick pillowcases. Come to think of it, maybe she wasn't so much a mage playing at being a rogue as a mage moonlighting as a rogue. When she wasn't moonlighting as a doxy. That dress. If only it had been on anyone else. Not that anyone besides Isabela would dare wear it outside – 

“You've been walking around the docks in that?” Carver asked, aghast. “Wait. You've been walking from the Alienage to the Docks wearing that?” How was she still alive? Oh, Maker, was she using magic in the streets?

“I leave a cloak here,” Sister said, pointing to the stand next to the door.

“You can borrow mine, lethallin,” Merrill offered. “If you're worried about being seen.”

His and Sister's eyes met, both wide. Oh, they had not thought this through at all. “Yes, please,” he said, mouth suddenly dry.

Merrill's cloak barely fell as far as his knees. 

Somehow, they got to the Docks without incident. Killing Strand really did seem to have broken the back of his gang, which Carver had thought would have made Aveline happy, but she was always so morose. _Someone else will just take their place_ , she'd sighed. _Someone else_ would get their asses kicked and their bodies looted. 

There, Sister chose an alley off the back of The Silent Pirate, which Carver thought was the most stupidly-named bar in all of Kirkwall. It sounded both like an invitation to guards and something Varric would name one of his horrible romances. Isabela said it didn't, because pirates weren't silent unless you cut their tongues out, and after that they were no fun. 

But it was popular nonetheless, which made him nervous about how quiet the alley seemed to be. Usually where you found whores, you found more than one. Where you didn't, that was a sign it wasn't a safe place to be. “Are we here early?” he asked, aiming for casual and coming out cautious. 

But Sister nodded. “Less of a crowd. But less coin, too.” 

“Less coin?” Carver asked. If they were going to go to these lengths, surely – 

“You can charge more if they're stupid with drink. Or roll them, if they're drunk enough,” Sister shrugged. 

Carver grimaced at the thought of his sister being pawed at by drunk sailors, but face it, that's what was going to happen whether they did it now or later. He wasn't clear about what exactly her objection was. It couldn't have been to rolling them. Andraste's ass, she was nicking pillowcases, now. 

His confusion must have shown on his face because she added, “But there's no squabbling over whose patch it is if I clear out early.”

Even a doxy could do his sister some damage if she didn't defend herself, especially if she was armed. And near as Carver could tell, everybody in Kirkwall went armed except Mother. So either Sister defended herself, with all the risk that entailed, and which Sister would object to, because she could be soft like that... or she didn't, and got hurt and sent home hungry. Ugh. 

Sister took off the cloak and folded it, placing it on top of one of the boxes left in the alley. Then she dragged the box further in, and Carver had to turn around lest he be sick. Something about it, the pragmatism of it, made this real to him in a way even the dress had not. She wasn't doing it to keep Merrill's cloak clean. She was going to use it as some kind of cushion. Carver's stomach rolled. 

It was not a good moment for someone to open the back door of the Pirate – and argh, his mind, argh – but they did, and he reached for his sword on reflex. Sister, however, heard it too and joined him at the entrance to the alley, laying a hand on his arm to sooth him. But when he looked at her, she only had eyes for the mark. John. No. Better to think of him as a mark. Pretend his sister really was rolling them. And not _rolling_ them. He squeezed his eye shut against the thought. 

But it did nothing to shut out the voices. 

“Aren't you a pretty thing?” the mark started, already slurring.

“Yes,” Sister said, her voice amused. “I am.” Wait – was that a Kirkwall accent? Well played, Sister.

“Got a name?” Oh, Andraste's ass. Even Carver could manage a better seduction than this. 

“Scarlet,” Sister said, and Carver had to work to keep from snorting. 

“So how much Scarlet?” the mark said. 

Somehow, Carver made himself breathe normally. 

“10 silvers and I'll fluff you, 30 and I'll lay you. Throw in a fluff for free.” Carver was suddenly very grateful for the Kirkwall accent. He could almost pretend it was someone else talking. 

The mark handed over 30 silvers, and she led him into the alley. Carver didn't want to listen, but listening was the point. He knew how fast something could go bad, and there was no guarantee you'd even get a chance to shout. So he listened. 

He listened as the laces of the mark's pants were opened; he listened to the sound of slurping; he listened to the heavy breathing and groaning; the sickening pop as she pulled off; rustling clothes and then flesh slapping, and then something that sounded like a strangled shout, but it wasn't _her_ strangled shout, so he stayed put. The mark stumbled out of the alley a minute later. Sister gave him a minute longer. 

“As bad as you were expecting?” She asked, subdued. “Or worse?”

 _Worse_ , he thought. But... in a way, it wasn't. Worse things than bad sex happened in dark alleys all the time. The mark hadn't done anything to his sister he hadn't done with camp followers at Ostagar. “I could ask you the same thing,” he managed, almost steadily.

She snorted. “It's fine. I don't think I'd care, expect for Mother.”

“Really?” he asked, looking at her for the first time since – Since. 

“Really,” she said. “There are worse things than a tumble in an alley, little brother. Though I will say I've had better sex. And I'm not looking forward to the lecture from Anders when I inevitably catch some filthy disease. But I'd get that too if I got my arm lopped off, and at least he can fix crotch rot.”

Carver couldn't help it; he actually barked a laugh at this. Part of him felt like he ought to have been horrified, but Sister had a way of making the most horrible things bearable. He'd slept with Bethany by his side from before he was born until the day he left to join the King's army, and never once had he wished she could join him there. But Sister... Sister he'd wished for. He could never have found the words to tell either of them, let alone why, but it was true. Bethany was the best of them. The best of _him_ , and he'd spare her anything. That she'd spared him from the orge all but killed him when he thought of it, even now. It probably always would. He'd have done anything, however terrifying, alone, to protect Bethany. But he thought he could survive anything, however awful, as long as Sister was with him. She smiled up at him at the sound. 

“I should hope you've had better sex than _that_ ,” he said, scanning the alley once more. 

She laughed softly. “After you left, a pair of knights came through Lothering -”

“Oh, Andraste,” he said. “You _swore_ no more teasing templars!” He'd thought father was about to have a seizure of the brain when they'd found her behind the barn with Ser Prettyface – he'd long since forgotten the man's name – Pennyforte, maybe? – but Sister and Bethany had called him that, and it had stuck. 

Sister looked stricken, and he suddenly remembered that she'd cried, then. She rarely did, even when she was getting punished, but she'd cried then. Father had been so angry, at the stupid risk she'd taken. Everyone had – Carver and Bethany included. And it wasn't just herself she was risking; if the templar had caught her, he might have found Bethany, or Father. They'd moved on again not long after that, and Bethany and Carver had given her the cold shoulder over it. Mother had been angriest of them: at the stupidity, at moving again, and hypocrite that Mother was, angriest, it seemed, at the fact that Sister had lifted her skirts at all. 

Still. Father might have been long gone by Ostagar, but Bethany wasn't, and it was a stupid thing to do. But Bethany was gone too, now, and nothing had come of it. “I suppose it doesn't matter now,” Carver said quietly. “I do wish you wouldn't, though.”

“I don't,” Sister said softly. “They weren't templars, Carver. I wouldn't. They were real knights. From Redcliffe. On a quest to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes. It seemed so romantic. And with the Blight on our heels. Well.”

“Ah. Bethany would have liked that,” Carver said softly.

“Bethany did like that,” Sister told him, and she was smiling like Isabela when he looked over. 

“Sister!” Carver said.

She laughed. “I believe Ser Henric was a perfect gentleman.” Then she added slyly, “Of course, Ser Donall was very gentlemanly too. Especially in bed.”

“Sister...”

“Honestly, you really should call me something else while we're here,” she said. As if to punctuate her argument, the back door opened again.

The marks got progressively drunker, and Sister's prices climbed, and gradually other doxies joined them in the alley. They left at that point. 

When they got to Merrill's, it was late enough that she would probably have normally barred the door, but Sister walked right in, heading straight for the wash room. 

Carver sat, wishing he had an excuse to ask to use it, too. 

His ass barely had a chance to touch the chair when Merrill asked, “So, was it exciting?” 

If it had been Anders asking, Carver knew he would have punched him. If had been Isabela, he'd have resisted. But because it was Merrill, and she was asking out of some sort insatiable bright curiosity, he found himself answering. Worse, with the truth. “I've never been less turned on in my life," he admitted. "If there's an opposite to an erection, I have one now. I may never have one again.”

“Oh,” Merrill said quietly. “But surely you've heard her having sex before.”

Carver's eyes were nearly as wide as her own as he looked at her. 

“The room you share is very small,” she continued blithely. “Or do humans not do that?”

There was a long pause before Carver found the ability to say, “Humans don't usually take lovers with their family in the same room, Merrill.”

“Oh, no,” she laughed. “Elves don't do that either. Though I think we're probably better at not seeing things we weren't meant to see and not hearing things we weren't meant to hear than humans are. Though I've seen humans do it too, but usually only if crime is involved.”

“Yeah,” Carver said. Humans did that alright. 

“I meant – pleasuring yourself. Do humans do that? I think Isabela does.”

“Isabela does everything,” Carver said. Well, to hear her tell it anyway. “But yeah, uh. Humans do. That. But not usually with someone else in the same room.”

“But sometimes?”

“Er. Soldiers don't get a lot of privacy,” Carver admitted. “But uh, they know that about each other. So. You pretend not to hear what you weren't supposed to, I guess.”

“And you and Hawke can't give that to each other?”

“You don't have siblings, do you Merrill?” Carver finally managed.

“Not that I know of,” she said. 

Oh, yeah. She'd been taken from her family for having magic. Some things were the same everywhere. “No. Sister and I wouldn't do that with each other in the room.” Not and expect to live it down, anyway. Though maybe Sister always had, since apparently she was the quiet type. Ugh. He needed so much brandy. 

“But it's not really any different than what you're doing now,” Merrill said. 

But that was both so true and so false at the same time that Carver was helpless to reply. As he shrugged, Sister came back out, dressed in her leathers again. She held five silvers out to Merrill as she walked over. For her trouble and the use of her wash room, Carver assumed. 

Merrill took it solemnly, and then looked between them. “Isabela called by earlier and said I should ask for it in trade.”

Carver really was going to strangle Isabela with her scarf one day. Sister just looked amused, though. “That's because Isabela gives very bad advice, Merrill.” 

“Would... would it be bad if I did?” Merrill asked carefully, like she did when she knew she was on dangerous ground, but didn't know why. 

Sister blinked.“Uh, no. Not if that's what you really want.” She looked over at Carver. “But maybe we should do it another time.”

Carver rose to leave. Sister could make it as far as Gamlen's from here without getting her head chopped off or showing her magic. 

“I meant with Carver,” Merrill said straightforwardly, looking between them again. 

“Er, Carver's not -” Sister began. 

And Carver _wasn't_. And this wasn't how he wanted things with Merrill, but he did want Merrill, and Merrill apparently wanted him, too, and well. You were lucky to get what you wanted, let alone how you wanted it. “I'll do it,” he said, as calmly as he could manage. 

Sister looked surprised, and then thoughtful, as she looked between them. She said nothing as she took the silvers back from Merrill. 

As she turned for the door, Carver reached for Merrill's hand. 

Merrill led the way to the bedroom, never noticing as Sister left the coins on the side table before she opened the door. But Carver did, and the thing that was tightening in his chest eased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, that's not a fade to black, that's a cliff hanger. A sexy cliff hanger! Which is the best kind of cliff hanger of all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill and Carver sitting in a Vhenadahl, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.

When they reached her bedroom, Merrill turned to face him, and Carver was surprised to discover that she looked shy; he'd seen her nervous before, even anxious, confused and bewildered, but shy was new, and he found himself rather fond of it. 

“Sooo,” she said quietly, still holding his hand, but blushing even as she met his eyes. “What does five silvers get me?”

“Whatever you want,” he laughed. He debated telling her, but she'd find out anyway. And maybe... maybe it would be okay, just to tell her. “Sister left the coin on the table by the door. I don't need pay to find you beautiful, or to want to be with you.”

“Oh,” she said. “Really? I know I'm no... Isabela.”

“Thank the Maker for that. And that she doesn't _always_ give bad advice.” Merrill laughed softly. “So what is it that you want?”

Merrill bit her lip a little, and shook her head, but she didn't let go of his hand. 

Carver laughed. “Alright. What would you have asked for, if you still thought you were paying for it?”

“Your tongue. On me.”

Carver smiled wickedly, and leaned in to kiss her deeply. And then he kissed his way south, slowly removing layers as he did, laying her down on her back seemingly without her knowing. By the time her leggings were off, she was already breathless. “Creators!” she babbled. “Carver, are you sure?”

“If you still are,” Carver said with a smile. 

She nodded, eyes wide and wild. He wondered if maybe she hadn't done this before; it didn't seem right to ask. Merrill sometimes seemed naïve, but she knew her own mind. If she was a virgin, and wanted him to know, she'd have told him. 

So he hooked her legs over his shoulders and pressed his face to her quim and kissed it as tenderly and wickedly as he had her mouth. She came almost immediately, back arching off the bed driving her more deeply onto his face, and she moaned as she did, so quietly, low and long, that Carver nearly came untouched as he had not in years. 

“Good?” he said, in a tone whose smugness was tempered by his own breathlessness.

“Be sure of it, vhenan'ara,” Merrill said softly.

“Vhenan'ara?” 

“An... endearment,” Merrill said, flushing. “Might I... ask for more?”

Carver kissed the inside of her thigh, and then rested his head where he had kissed, letting his eyes fall on hers. “For anything your heart desires.” 

Her breath hitched, and she nodded. “Then I would like you to join with me.”

Carver was almost sure he knew what she meant, but just in case, he asked, “You want,” but he couldn't just say _my cock in you_ not after that pretty piece of poetry, “uh, me to take you?”

“Take me where?” Merrill said, brow furrowing.

“Lie with you,” Carver ventured. 

“Well... in a little while. Though the bed is a little small,” Merrill said.

He'd tried. Maker and Bride knew he'd tried. “My cock in you,” he said, the heat on his face and neck flushed more deeply as he did. 

“Oh!” She brightened. “Yes, please.”

He was too aroused to do more than push his trousers down to his knees – he didn't even get off his knees, simply dragging her closer, and onto his cock – and when he slipped inside of her she moaned again and he had to bite his tongue lest he shame himself entirely. She rolled her hips, and he when grabbed them to still them, she laughed, sending more shock waves of soft wet silk to wrap around him and grip him tight. It was his turn to moan. 

Oh, how it was his turn. 

He did his best, but there was simply no way to last long, not with her so beautiful before him, writhing naked on her narrow bed – the bed she wanted him to share when they were done. 

He cried out her name as his eyes closed and chased his own pleasure. 

When he was done, and weak with it, she helped him rise, and seemed to take an utter delight in stripping him. She'd barely half-unbuttoned his tunic before she began exploring his chest, tweaking each of his nipples in turn as he'd seen her do to her own. By the time he was naked, he was hard again, and despite his exhaustion, he could not say no to another round. 

But Merrill could see that he was tired, and lay him flat in her bed. Once that was done, she sheathed herself upon him; he thumbed her secret nub as she rode him. They climax again, almost together – her first, quickly followed by him, incapable of resisting the feel of her pleasure around him. 

They fell asleep like that, and woke up a sticky tangle of languid limbs, and had each other once more, before Carved forced himself from the bed and into the bathing area. Even leaving Merrill's house, he was happier than he'd been in over a year. 

Of course it couldn't last. 

When he made it to Gamlen's, Mother had a face like a slapped arse. “The Hanged Man, Carver, honestly. Bad enough that you insist on spending time there, but really, what earthly good can come from staying the night? Do you want to turn into your uncle?”

Sister shot him an apologetic look over Mother's head. She'd either come up with this lie, or hadn't contradicted this assumption of Mother's. But did he really want drag Merrill into it? No. Sister was right. They couldn't trust her to understand. Mother could be highly selective in what she considered acceptable. Her Ferelden apostate was _marrying for love_ , never mind how big her belly was by the time she'd made it to the Chantry. But his Ferelden apostate would almost certainly be a different matter entirely, for reasons that would never be exactly clear. 

The day didn't exactly get better when the letter from Meeran turned up, and then of course Gamlen had to chime in like it wasn't his fault that Meeran was sniffing around them. “You get more mail than I do,” he bitched. 

That started Mother going again. “The only mail you get, Gamlen, is overdue notices from your creditors! You should be glad it's not for you.”

They should all be glad it wasn't for him. Carver didn't miss how Gamlen's eyes slid to where Sister was standing, but she was studiously ignoring both him and Mother. 

He tried to follow suit, but it was impossible. They had the worst habit of standing right outside the door to his and Sister's bedroom when they quarrelled, and the pillow over his face wasn't enough to drown them out when they really got going. He hadn't bothered to climb up to the top bunk, flopping down on Sister's bed while she tried to study.

Or perhaps not. “So,” Sister said lifting the pillow. “Are you trying to sleep under there, or smother yourself?” 

“Neither,” Carver said, reaching for the pillow. 

“Well?”

“A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell,” Carver said. 

“As if.”

“It was nice,” Carver smiled. 

“It's good to see you happy,” Sister said softly, plunking down on her bed next to him. “Shove in Carver.”

He did, feeling more agreeable than usual despite their morning so far. “I am happy. Or I would be.” He gestured at the door; the argument was groaning on. 

Sister winced. “Sorry about Mother. It wasn't one of my better lies. I should have told her Anders needed help for clinic but I didn't think of it until afterwards.”

“She'd never have believed that.”

“He needed a big, burly orderly to help move his patients.”

“Not a guard to protect him from the Carta?”

“And where was I when I was supposed to be protecting you while you were protecting him from the Carta?”

“That woman,” Carver said, grabbing for the pillow again. 

“She is our mother,” Sister said quietly. 

“As if I could forget,” he growled. 

“Do you want to meet up with Meeran?” Sister asked.

Carver's brow furrowed. “Why are you asking me?” 

“You don't like Meeran any more than I do,” Sister said. 

“I don't care for anyone who screws us over,” Carver said. “But if he's paying, it's better than the alternative, right?”

Except it wasn't. It should have been easy enough. Find Gustav, finish the job – well, they could find Gustav at least. The rest of the job had an unspoken _we'll see_ hanging over it. They were out till dawn looking for the stupid sodding bastard, and of course he hadn't finished the job; he was in the middle of _getting_ finished when they found him. 

And then Harimann turned up. And told them why he had a price on his head, and Meeran could fuck himself with a _mace_ if he thought – well, he could just fuck himself with a mace. 

Gustav freaked when they let Harimann go, and Sister decided it was wiser not to lie to Meeran about it. Gustav might tell Meeran, after all, but really it was just as well. Because Carver was pretty sure that the next time saw Meeran he was going to tell the man to _fuck himself with a mace_. 

The meeting went about as well as Carver imagined it would – they didn't even get paid for finding Gustav – and then when they finally got home, Mother and Gamlen kept up their sniping outside the door as he and Sister tried to get a few hours of sleep. 

“'No rest for the wicked',” Sister murmured from below him. 

“'As the templar said to the apostate',” Carver replied, pulling his pillow over his face.


	5. Chapter 5

Varric didn't have a job the next day either. 

Or the day after that. 

The day after that another letter turned up on the writing desk, and Gamlen was suspicious silent about it. Sister slid it into her breast plate without ever looking up, and Carver knew exactly what it meant. 

“Show it to me,” he said when they were alone. 

“No,” she said. 

“Sister -”

“No. You already want to break Gamlen's face. _I_ already want to break Gamlen's face. It's not going to help.”

Carver folded his arms. “Sounds like we could solve this by letting whoever sent it break Gamlen's face.”

Sister sighed. “I can't pretend I'm not tempted. He knows, I'm sure of it.”

“He's like a slimier version of Varric. Of course he knows,” Carver said. 

“We can't,” Sister said. “He's our uncle. We can't.”

“Then show me the letter,” Carver said, implacably. 

Sister gave in, finally.

It wasn't quite as bad as he was expecting. Or – maybe it was worse. There was no obvious threat; but there didn't have to be, did there? They all knew the score. Why put it down in writing? “Your debt has come due” was plenty ominous enough. “No further allowances will be extended”. That was Kirkwall for _We're sick of you Amells and your shit_ , Carver was pretty sure. There was nothing to take to Aveline, though. 

“This can't keep happening,” Carver said. 

“Some of these debts are old, Carver. This one probably got called in because of us,” Sister said quietly. “I recognise the name. That's one of Meeran's wallop buddies.”

Carver swallowed. “Still. Gamlen knows what this is costing us, and he's still acting like none of it matters. You think he hasn't laid on a new bet since Gallard open the books to him again?”

“I know he has. Mother found a slip. I heard them arguing about it.” Sister sighed. “But I can't very well let Gamlen get hurt because Meeran's pissed at us.”

“Gamlen's the one who got himself into trouble in the first place,” Carver said, but without any real heat. He'd known he'd lost hours before. But sometimes you have to fight it out all the same. 

He tried not to think about it too hard in the alley later. 

“10 silvers and I'll fluff you, 30 and I'll lay you. Throw in a fluff for free,” Sister said, and the mark bought the lay. 

"Why do you always offer them that?" Carver said when she came out of the alley. "Why give them anything for free?"

"So they'll take it," Sister explained patiently. "I'm checking for crotch rot."

 _Ugh._

“10 silvers and I'll fluff you, 30 and I'll lay you. Throw in a fluff for free,” Sister said, her tone just shy of bored. 

"And for your ass?"

"50 silvers," she said, boredom turning to amusement. It was all fake, Carver was sure, though he didn't understand how she knew to come the harlot with some of them, and play jaded for others. But it was keeping them in coin. But. 50 silvers? For that? That seemed low. And ill-advised.

The mark's hand moved to his purse, hovered there. He glanced between them. "How much for his ass?"

Sister laughed long and loud, as a blush crept up Carver's cheeks. "It's not for sale. But that's another ten silvers, for annoying my bodyguard."

The man frowned, but handed over the coins, and Sister led him into the alley, and Carver made himself listen. 

When the mark had gone back in, he half expected to have to go into the alley after her, but she sauntered out, same as always. "Why would you agree to that?" he managed. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. But. She was doing it to put food on their table, and to keep Kirkwall's criminal classes from coming after them all. It was a kind of cowardice hide from what she was doing to make that possible.

Her smile turned soft as she saw the anxiety in his eyes; he'd never been any good at hiding from her, but he looked away anyway, for what good it would do. He didn't need her pity. Not on top of everything else. 

"I suspect it's not like what you're picturing, to start with," Sister said quietly. "But I knew getting into this that someone was bound to ask. So I'm always ready, in case."

"How do you get ready for something like that?" Carver asked, aghast, looking back at her in sheer surprise.

Sister blinked at him, and there was a pause before she said, "I can tell you, if you really want to know."

"...No."

But by the end of the night – measured as when the other doxies started to turn up and give them the side-eye – they'd made enough to cover Gamlen's debt. 

“I can't stay,” Carver told Merrill as his sister – what? Changed? Washed? Douched? Oh, and how he told himself he wasn't a coward. How he clutched it like child with a blanket. “We still have to pay off the bastard.”

Merrill nodded, but then she said, in that tone of worry she sometimes had, “Come by the Hanged Man, after.”

He looked at her, but nothing seemed wrong, exactly, so it was him that she was worried over. He sighed. “I'm fine, Merrill. Nobody needs to bother about me.”

“Er, no,” she said, gentle and firm all at once. “You don't need us too. That's very different from what we need, emma vhenan.” 

He wondered if this was what bothered Fenris and Anders about her, in truth. Not the blood magic, abhorrent though it was, but this. This old soul, hidden under the face of a child. “I can't. Sister's selling herself in an alleyway to provide for us. I'm not drinking what little coin we have left over.”

Merrill nodded. “I don't always understand human customs,” she acknowledged. “I say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing, and most of the time no one even bothers to explain what I did that was so wrong.”

“That's because,” Carver said hesitantly, “trying to explain it to you means we're faced with the realisation that there isn't an explanation. Like the time you visited the Viscount's garden.”

“Yes, what was that about?” Merrill asked curiously.

“I don't know,” he admitted. “I'm supposed to say something about how it's private, but it's a garden. What's the big deal? So really, we just didn't know how to tell you that all you'd done wrong was to break a stupid rule the rest of us obey unthinkingly.”

Merrill hummed thoughtfully. “Well. Then I'm asking you to come along to the Hanged Man. It will be fine. When the Dalish first came together, do you think it was then as it is now? I don't. I'm sure there were those who did not understand what it meant to a clan, a people, together. How could it be otherwise? But it must be so, or Fenris would not abide with Anders or I. Anders would not abide with me. Aveline would turn Anders over to the templars as an abomination, me as a blood mage, Hawke as an apostate. Isabela would leave.”

Carver's heart wrenched painfully at this thought of a people, bound by some yoke they had freely chosen. “Merrill... I have not the coin.”

“I have,” Merrill said firmly. “And I share it freely. Would you deny me, lethallin?”

 _Clansman._ He hung his head. “No.”

“Don't despair, emma lath,” Merrill coaxed him. “All will be well. You'll see.”

“We have to go out again first,” Carver said. “But I'll come back.”

Merrill nodded understandingly. “I'll go with you.”

“There's no need,” Carver said.

“True. But there was a reason you didn't murder the man you're visiting earlier and I think it might be easier to remember it if I was there with you,” she said, and there was no trace of judgement in her voice as she did, only a sort of pragmatic warmth. 

Merrill was right; with her by his side, it was far easier to rein in the urge to kill the bastard who'd called in Gamlen's marker to punish the Hawke siblings for refusing to murder a man who'd done what he could to help people like them. 

Merrill was right about the Hanged Man too. He felt stupid and young walking in the door, like a boy back from some misadventure, but it felt like home, too. As they trudged up the stairs, he heard Varric muttering something. 

"Varric, are you talking to yourself?" Sister teased, as they entered his room.

"No, Hawke, I'm breaking the fourth wall," Varric said, and Isabela laughed richly.

"What's the fourth wall?" Carver asked.

"Theatre term, Junior. The invisible wall between the stage and the audience." Varric shoved some papers across the desk. “Look at this. It's almost done.”

“What is it?” Carver said lifting the sheaf, and then his eyes fell on the title and he groaned. _The Dog-Lord and the Daring Pirate_. 

Sister dove on it with enough speed that you'd believe she actually was a rogue. “A time of trial, treason, and war,” Sister read dramatically, “A farm-boy of eighteen is raised to the Teyrnir of Gwaren after slaughtering Loghain for his treachery at Ostagar – _really_ Varric?” 

“Read on,” Varric insisted. 

But Sister skimmed. “You called him _Butcher_.”

“What? It's like Carver!”

“Andraste's ass,” Carver mumbled, and Merrill frantically waved out the door at Norah. 

“I think they turned you into a werewolf,” Sister said grimly.

“'They'?” Carver asked.

“I detect Isabela's hand in this,” Sister admitted.

Carver grabbed at the papers, spilling some to the vocal dismay of yes, both Varric and Isabela. But on the topmost sheet, Teyrn Butcher had finally captured the Pirate Captain Bellissima, and taken her in chains to his dungeons. And then... 

“Maker and Bride, Varric, you can't do that to prisoners!” Carver said, his face heating. He hadn't been a soldier long, but there were _rules_. He remembered his sergeant shouting them loud and long until they all _got them through their thick heads_. Not that you ever took _darkspawn_ prisoner, of course. But the point still stood.

Isabela winked. “Sometimes a bad girl needs a good spanking.”

“Clearly,” Fenris said. Putting his mug down, he reached for Isabela, perched on the arm of his chair, and had her over his lap in a moment. 

“Fenris!” Isabela said, surprised. Carver stilled, not sure what to do. “I didn't know you had it in you.”

Fenris chuckled, low in his throat and slapped her rump once, before releasing her. 

“You can't do that,” Isabela complained. “You have to even me up.”

Fenris obliged, slapping her other cheek. 

“If you're going to do that, kids, go find some place to play that isn't Uncle Varric's room,” Varric said.

Isabela rose with a smirk. 

“No need,” Fenris said. “It can wait.”

“It can wait, he says!” Isabela threw up her arms. “This what I have to put up with. As if we can't come back later.”

Aveline dropped into a seat. “Well, later he can smack your hands for not keeping those sticky fingers to yourself. I doubt it has much value as a deterrent.”

“Oooh, point.”

Merrill had apparently been quietly tidying up the fallen pages while Carver had been staring at the tableau in front of him, because she held up the sheaf of papers in one had, and a single page in the other. “Varric,” she said quietly, “Could I maybe just keep this one?”

Varric smiled softly. “You can keep the whole thing, Daisy.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some work! It's still not the kind Carver can tell Mother about, though.

The next day they found themselves back in the Hanged Man. Carver hadn't drunk enough to have a sore head, and he felt looser than he had since Meeran, even if his shoulders tightened as they climbed the stairs. But before Sister could even open her mouth, Carver could tell it was good news. Varric was smiling.

“Got a whisper of a job, Hawke. One you might even like,” Varric said. 

Templars and mages. It always seemed to come down to that in this city. 

And finding Feynriel turned out to be a real nightmare. The stupid boy was half-way to fucking Tevinter by the time they caught up with him.

Slavers always put Fenris in a such good mood, and then Sister had to suggest sending him Dalish, and then Merrill had latched onto it, so instead of putting the menace into the Circle where he belonged – the boy couldn't even take care of himself, that was plain – off to the Dalish he went, and Carver had to listen to Fenris and Merrill squabbling the entire way back. It wasn't even like he didn't want to join in. But Sister was pretending to be deaf, and it wasn't Merrill he wanted to argue with. 

And after days of work chasing the idiot, all they got a blasted ring out of it. They retired to Merrill's house to sip grass-flavoured tea and contemplate their haul. Oh, it was a nice ring, but even Carver could tell they'd get little more than half-nothing for it. Still, it had a bit of magic in it, and he knew that Sister hadn't been happy even to accept the ring, so she'd be even more unhappy if they just sold it, so he said, “Well, it's not going to fit on my fat fingers.” He held it up. “Either of you want to try?”

Fenris eyed it carefully. “What does it do?”

Carver handed it to Sister, who closed her fist around it and concentrated. “Martial bonuses and physical damage.”

“Fenris should take it,” Merrill chirruped.

Fenris frowned, but did, slipping his gauntlet off to try it on. “I will wear it,” he concluded.

He didn't stay long after that, but then Fenris never did. It was as polite as he got around "the witch". It was probably only that he was in Merrill's own home that prevented him from insulting her. 

“That was a nice thing you did,” Merrill when they were alone.

They were alone, of course, only in the most technical sense. He knew his sister was just down the hall, getting ready to go out, again. Somehow it always seemed worse after they'd had a job. They shouldn't have to do this _now_. “What was?” he asked, trying for normal. 

“Letting Fenris have the ring. I know you wanted to sell it.”

“Sister wouldn't. She wanted Arianni to keep it.” Besides, Fenris had gotten nothing else out of the job. Merrill and Sister had at least had the satisfaction of keeping Feynriel out of the Circle. 

“Like a mother wouldn't trade more than a ring to keep her son safe,” Merrill said. “And Arianni has her pride, just like Hawke has. You think I wouldn't let her use my room without pay? But it matters to her to do it.”

“It takes up a lot of your time, Merrill. And your home,” Carver said. 

“Not so much. A bit. An extra trip or two to the well here and there isn't much compared to everything you and Hawke did for me when I first came to Kirkwall.”

“We wouldn't make very good Dalish, I suppose,” Carver said. 

“Well, you're very tall and your ears aren't pointy,” Merrill said, and then she smiled. “But you are good people who care about each other. That matters more, I think. More tea?”

“Thanks, Merrill.”

 _You are good people who care about each other_ , she'd said, and Carver pondered it as he stood in the alley listening to his sister negotiate with her latest mark. He wasn't always sure about the 'good' part, but 'care' probably didn't really cover it.

"You're new," the mark began. 

"Perhaps I should charge for the novelty, then," Si – Scarlet said, better to think of her as Scarlet, for now – in that odd honey-and-vinegar tone she used only on her marks, and their enemies. 

It was the last thing many a man had heard this side of the Void, but it just made the mark edge closer. Carver had long since given up on trying to figure out what made them tick. "I'll pay more for novelty," the mark agreed. 

"Ah," Scarlet said, and laughed. "Well, well, well."

The mark looked earnest. "I will pay more."

"Oh, you will," she promised. "If I agree to do it. And rather a lot more, depending on whether you want me to do it to you, or if you want to be the one doing it to me. So what is it? And which is it?"

And that was how Carver came to know that some men would happily pay a solid-gold sovereign to have a woman tell him that his dick was too small for her to let him fuck her, and then ridicule him while he knelt at her feet and wanked in a dirty alley. 

While she pissed on him. 

That kept them out of the alley for few more days, and by then Varric had caught wind of another job – delicate, this time, because of rumoured Chantry involvement – but potentially worthwhile, all the same. 

“We should keep the mages out of it,” Carver told Sister as they sat at Varric's table. 

“I'll leave my staff at home,” she said drily. She hadn't carried a staff since they'd given up working for Meeran. The first time.

Carver's mouth tightened, but he didn't say, _I meant you too_ , because he hadn't, not really. And it wouldn't have done any good if he did. But he didn't like it either. 

“Any word on what the sister wants?” Sister asked Varric.

“No, but the word is the coin's good,” Varric said. “I'm guessing danger pay.”

Sister nodded, and Carver could see the wheels turning in her head. She'd take him – big brute with a big sword, check. She'd need an actual rogue, she wasn't completely delusional yet – that would be Varric; all things being equal, Sister always picked Varric over Isabela. She'd leave Aveline out of it, most likely; she usually did, given that what they were doing was usually shady. So that left Fenris and Isabela. No disservice to Isabela – she was great in a tight spot, not a joke – but she could start shit too, and walking into something with danger pay involved? “Fenris,” Carver said aloud.

“Hmm?” Sister asked, brow furrowing.

“I know what you're thinking,” Carver said. “So it's you, me, Varric and Fenris.”

“That was what I was thinking,” Sister said agreeably. “All right.” 

Varric sent a runner up to Hightown for Fenris – no point in getting out of breath before they even started, right? But they were on the streets soon enough, and Sister Petrice wasn't hard to find. 

Nor was her templar backup, who'd probably been mowing down Lowtown muggers for days before she'd finally found someone willing to take the mission, and not just the money. 

But when they found out what the mission was, Carver suddenly wished they'd walked away. The thought of his sisters with their mouths sown shut would haunt him in his sleep, he was sure of it. But the pay was good, so into the undercity they went, Carver praying all the while that this wouldn't go as badly as the money suggested. 

But, this was his life, so of course it did. 

A set up, ambush, whatever you wanted to call it, that's what it was. Sister refused to had the Saarebas over, and that's when the fight broke out, your honour. Somehow, Carver didn't think the Qunari would have let them walk away alive even if they had. They got gratifyingly panicked, however, when Sister started casting. Her pull-then-punch force trick worked, even given the size of the Qunari warriors, and they didn't like that at all – the leader started shouting something about Bas Saarebas and how demons had ridden her words to poison his mind, but by then Bianca was launching what seemed like a thousand arrows at once in the group, and then, really, it was just mopping up with sword work.

And then, then when they'd _won_ , and they'd saved the stupid fucker's life, he went and immolated himself on the side of a cliff. Because that was his duty to the Qun. Something inside Carver broke, a little bit, watching that. 

“'Saarebas' means 'a dangerous thing', in the language of the Qunari,” Fenris rumbled beside him, as Carver and Sister looked on in horror. “It is their word for a mage.”

“You can't think that this is right,” Carver said, unable to look away.

“No.”

“I'm sorry about this Hawke,” Varric said. “I thought this smelled when we got to Petrice's place. Didn't realise it was a set-up though.”

“We were all supposed to die,” Sister said. 

“Looks like,” Varric said, slinging Bianca up behind him. 

“I would know why,” Fenris said darkly. 

“Oh, we're going to find out. Count on it,” Sister said grimly. 

She'd been what Mother would have called _a good girl_ once, his sister, Carver reflected. Never as devout as Mother or Bethany, but she'd said her prayers and lit candles in the Chantry. When had that changed? Lothering? Sometime in their first year in Kirkwall? She'd stopped going to services regularly then, between one thing and another; they had barely had a day off that entire first year. But still, he'd seen her at prayer, now and then, and made fun of her for it, even though he did it too. 

But then it stopped. She never set foot inside the Chantry if it could be avoided. He didn't like it either, but that was because – oh. Oh. The last time he'd seen her at prayer was the night they'd murdered the templars in the Chantry. 

Carver couldn't say that the templars hadn't brought it on themselves – they could have set their trap anywhere. But they'd chosen the Chantry, and then, well. Carver didn't owe it to anybody to just lay down and die, and neither did Sister. And even Carver could see that they had acted outside of the bounds of their order, without question, making tranquil a harrowed mage. And in attempting to capture a Grey Warden... that too was outside of their purview, regardless of anything else Anders was. They'd been a disgrace to their order.

But all the same, they'd crossed a line that night, him and Sister.

After Isabela's misadventures in the Chantry they'd just gotten rid of the bodies. Seemed like the thing to do. Couldn't get rid of all the blood, of course, but that was it. There was no going back.

They found Petrice and Varnell packing up the safe house with all the speed of someone who'd had a plan. Petrice was more honest, too, this time round, all but agreeing that yes, she'd sent them to their deaths, annoyed only that they hadn't managed to die for her faith. Carver was suddenly very glad she hadn't asked their names, even if that should have been a clue. He wanted to get out of there before Varnell decided Petrice had said too much, and that they all needed to die. Again. “Just pay us,” he snapped. 

7 gold sovereigns. 5 went straight to Varric, toward their little pot of buy-in. But the other two would keep them off the streets for a while, which was good. It was probably an idea to keep their heads down for a few days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick head count - is anyone still reading this? It's actually really hard to tell. 
> 
> If you are, I'd love to hear what you think -- is there stuff you want to see more of? Less of? Are you enjoying it? Not sure about it? Waiting for it to get good? About to give up on it? 
> 
> But even if you don't have a comment-comment, just letting me know that you're out there, reading, would be a help. Thanks!


	7. Chapter 7

It couldn't last forever, of course. 

Carver's mouth dropped open when he saw who'd exited the Pirate: the Viscount's fucking own seneschal. Carver frantically racked his brain for the man's name, not that it was going to matter if Carver had to cut off his head and flee the city with Sister in tow. It came to him, as the man sauntered up: _Bran_.

"So. _You_ are Scarlet. I had wondered," Bran said that annoying smoothly-bored way of his. 

Carver let his eyes move to watch Sister, just for a moment. She'd always been better at reading people than he was. But she was also better at keeping her cards close to her chest, too, and right now, she just tilted her head in an ironic acknowledgement. 

"The description of the birthmark made it seem certain, but then the rumour of a Hightown accent..." Bran trailed off. 

"Oh, but the rumour is quite true," Sister said, proving it. 

Bran laughed softly. "Learned, no doubt, at your mother's knee."

Carver stilled. Of course Bran knew Mother, constantly campaigning to have the house and titles returned.

"You've never struck me as the kind to offer favours," Sister said. It wasn't an accusation, like it would have been on Carver's tongue, but rather silken seduction laced with a barb for the unwary. He couldn't do it himself, but Carver knew it when he heard it. Sister'd learned that, too, at Mother's knee.

Bran laughed again, "Indeed I do not. But I do have a taste for desires that cannot easily be met. And I am happy to pay. Perhaps... 5 sovereigns."

Carver decided that his was the weirdest dream he'd ever had. It was the only explanation. Strange enough that Bran would be here, but 5 sovereigns? That was as much as the man had paid to have Saemus Dumar returned! 

"I confess myself curious," Sister said. "I take it this is not the sort of thing one discusses in an alleyway?"

"No, no. Come by my office when you have a moment. We'll discuss it there. If you do not care for it, nothing more will be said. If you decide you are willing to... entertain me in this, well. I will give you the address of a place where we can meet privately."

Carver straightened. "Not that privately."

"Oh, no, Serrah Guard. I wouldn't dream of separating you from your charge. In fact, if I didn't know better..." Bran trailed off with a sigh.

"If you didn't know better?" Carver demanded. 

"Well," Bran said, shrugging eloquently, "I'd offer more for both of you together. Alas that it cannot be so."

"... Right," Carver managed, mind thoroughly boggled now, and trying very hard not to wonder if this was because Bran knew that Carver wasn't for sale, or because he knew that "Serrah Guard" and "Scarlet" were siblings.

It was late in the afternoon of the next day when made their way to the Keep, and Carver stood in the open doorway as Sister and Bran discussed their terms. He couldn't make out the words - they kept their voices low - but he could see the blush creeping up Sister's face. Carver couldn't wait to hear what caused _that_ reaction, even if it was going to cost them 5 sovereigns. That had been too much to hope for, realistically. But then... then she nodded, and Bran smirked, and picked an envelop from his desk. He handed it to her, and she tucked it inside her breastplate. 

Carver blinked. He followed Sister out of the office in silence, and when he looked back, Bran had already returned to his work, the stone-cold bastard. 

He managed to wait until they were in the street to ask. "So... what on earth does he want?"

"It's all rather elaborate," Sister said. "He wants me to find a 'decent' dress, and then we're to go have dinner at his home in two hours. I gather there will be music and dancing, but no guests besides us."

"Elaborate wouldn't make you blush. Dinner wouldn't make you blush. Even dancing wouldn't make you blush, you're not _that_ bad at it."

"No," Sister said slowly. "You know the joke Isabela makes about Fenris fisting people?"

He did. But what did that have to do with -- oh. "I also remember her explanation!"

"Yes, well. Apparently he really likes to be able to do that to a woman while he's plowing her."

"That explains the five sovereigns," Carver said, stunned. "But not why you agreed to take it."

"You're worried it will hurt," Sister said quietly.

"Yes!" Carver exclaimed. "Why aren't you?"

"People do it for fun," Sister insisted. "Isabela was talking about people paying Fenris to do that to them."

"People pay you to piss on them."

"Not after dinner and dancing."

"I can't believe you agreed to this."

"Bran seemed more surprised that I agreed to _kiss_."

Lady Elegant agreed to sell Sister one of her dresses from last season for 40 silvers. Carver would have baulked, but the truth was he knew what Hightown prices were like, and that was a generous discount for a dress that was like new, even if it was no longer trendy. 

“This one, I think,” Lady Elegant had said, handing it over. “The trim is almost the exact shade as your eyes.” Sister had tried it on, it had fit, and that was that. 

“Why not just ask to borrow it?” Carver complained as they walked toward the Alienage. 

“Because if anything happens to it, it will cost a lot more to replace,” Sister said patiently. “Besides. It might come in useful again. Or we can sell it on, if need be.”

“Oh,” Carver said. At a mark up, actually. He nodded. “I still don't like this.”

“Well, you'll be right there,” Sister said grimly. “If we need to leave... we can.”

They'd have to fucking leave _town_ but yeah. 

“Stop growling,” Sister chided. Carver hadn't realised he was. “You sound like Dane. Besides. It will be fine.”

It was fine, mostly. At the start, anyway. Carver expected Bran to let them into his home himself, having sent his servants out or to bed or whatever it was Kirkwall nobility did when they ordered whores in. But no, a doorman answered the door and showed them in to a plush waiting area. When Bran came in, he was dressed even more formally than he had been at the Keep; he passed a cursory eye over the pair of them; Carver hadn't bothered to change out of his armour, but Bran quirked a smile anyway. 

“You look beautiful, my dear,” he said to Si – to Scarlet. “Do come in. Dinner is about to be served.”

Carver was surprised to find three places set; he debated arguing this, as joining them for the meal really didn't meet the strict definition of guarding, and he wasn't getting paid to play into Bran's little fantasy – but he decided that it was ridiculous. The food smelled delicious, and it was free, and that was the best possible combination. So he sat, and had food served to him by servants for the first time in his life, and then watched as another took up a lute at the end of the hall. 

The whole thing was profoundly silly, but Scarlet made small talk with aplomb as Carver packed away the best food he'd eaten since he joined the army. Longer, maybe. Since before Father had died, probably. 

Fortunately for Scarlet, waltzes were waltzes everywhere, and Bran did not seem too keen to test the boundaries of his bizarre production, so they got through the dancing portion of the evening without anyone treading on anyone's toes, literally or metaphorically. 

It got a bit awkward when Bran started nibbling on Scarlet's ear in full view of Carver, but soon enough he was taking her by the hand and leading her up the stairs. Carver trailed along, and stationed himself outside the door. Bran and Scarlet both ignored him, but Bran left the door to the bedroom open a crack. 

It took _forever_. At first, all he heard was low voices – and then laughter, both Si – Scarlet's and Bran's. Rustling cloth, and the sound of – kissing? A chink of glassware – something sweet-smelling? _More_ talking, and then, out of nowhere, moaning began. 

It wasn't Bran. It wasn't the bad kind of moaning, the kind that meant pain, the kind that meant he'd have to get her out of there or live with himself ever afterwards. But it wasn't Bran, and he'd gotten used to thinking that as much as he'd have to listen to, at listen he wouldn't have to listen to _her_. 

He remembered her asking him, the first time she'd stepped out of the alleyway, “As bad as you were expecting? Or worse?”

He hadn't known then. And now... He was glad she wasn't in pain. And five sovereigns on top of the finest meal she'd likely had in her life was better, wasn't it, than fifty silvers in some back alley? But underneath all the finery, it still all seemed so extreme. 

And no less sordid. 

Later, when Si – Scarlet retired to the bathing room to “freshen up”, Bran led Carver into a study across the hall, and poured him a rather large brandy and invited him to sit. 

For several long minutes, neither of them said anything. Bran sipped his – notably smaller – brandy and stared into the fire, while Carver gulped his. But then Bran turned, and leaned back against the desk; his eyes roamed lazily over Carver, and his mouth turned up at the corner as he spoke. "It truly is a pity that you are not more... keen on the family business. You have a great many charms of your own."

Carver huffed. "I haven't had many offers, if I do."

Bran laughed softly. "Word has a way of getting around. I hear Scarlet adds _obscene_ charges if her bodyguard is accosted."

Oh. "Oh." Carver said.

"But if you were to find yourself... curious... there are those who would pay well for a few moments of your time."

Carver tried desperately to work out if Bran meant himself. Bran had implied as much in the alley, and Bran had plenty of “charms” of his own. Carver wasn't blind, and he couldn't say he'd never been curious, but the thought of a man sticking his _cock_ up Carver's ass was enough to make Carver nervous, let alone what Bran was apparently into. Holy Andraste. "Er -"

"I do not mean myself," Bran said, his hand moving genteelly, as if to wave the thought away. "Though I would certainly not _object_. But I prefer to be... on top, shall we say? Other men have different needs. Should you find that more... appealing."

"Wait," Carver said. "There are men who pay for whores to do the fucking?"

Bran winced. "Yes. And fortunately for you, my... friend would not be dismayed by your... frankness."

Carver snorted. "Well... maybe. If your friend pays like you."

"Not quite so richly," Bran said lightly. "His desires being considerably less onerous. But enough to make it worth your time... and discretion."

And suddenly Carver knew. It was Saemus, had to be. And he'd been easy on the eyes, despite his stupid slicked-back-trying-to-look-like-a-Qunari hair. Carver doubted it would be unpleasant to fuck him. It wasn't like he'd never wondered what it might be like with another man. 

_Wondered what it would be like to be the one taking money for sex_ , he thought soberly. Out loud, he asked, "How much, do you reckon?"

"Perhaps 2 sovereigns. But it wouldn't be this," Bran waved a hand to take in the room, or perhaps the house, "elaborate endeavour. Just a few minutes of your time, your body, hard and willing, and your mouth closed forever on the subject."

_Definitely Dumar_ , Carver thought. "Let me think about it." 

Bran smiled. "Well. You know where my office is."


	8. Chapter 8

Carver waited until Sister had left before telling Merrill anything, and then it all came pouring out. 

“Do you wish to take him up on this offer, lethallin?” Merrill asked frankly. 

His heart wretched painfully, but she said nothing more, letting the silence fill up until he managed an answer for her. And, because it was Merrill, it was the truth. “Yes. And no. And yes again. And no, again.” Well, it was the truth, even if it didn't make sense, even if he couldn't look her in the eye as he spoke it.

He saw her fingers move, as though she was counting on them, slowly; then she spoke. “Yes, because you feel that if Hawke is willing to do this to provide for your family, you should be also. No, because you think that I would consider it disloyal. Yes again, because there's something in the offer that tempts you. And no again, because there's something in the offer you dislike.”

He looked up at her, shocked. That was... it was damn close. But her face held no trace of judgement, and he suddenly understood what a terrible loss to the Dalish she was, even if her people didn't. She would have made an amazing keeper. Maybe she still would, one day. Maybe she was building that clan now, in fact. 

“Yes,” he agreed, hoarsely.

“Well, I don't think it would be disloyal, emma vhenan. You must do what you feel is right for your people,” Merrill told him. 

“It's not just that, though. I've never been with another man... but I have wondered. I mean, I like girls well enough. I know there are men who don't, but I do –”

“I like both,” Merrill chimed in cheerfully. “So does Isabela. Fenris too, I think. Anders, definitely. Your sister. Lots of people, really.”

“My sister?” Carver said. 

“You've never seen the way she looks at Isabela. Probably because you were looking at Isabela at time,” Merrill said thoughtfully. “But I like men more than I like women. Isabela likes both equally, and all the people who fall somewhere in between just as much. Not sure about Fenris. Anders prefers men. You, I think, like women more then men. It's all fine, Carver. It's all normal. Just the way we're made. Like Fenris likes wine and Isabela likes rum and you like brandy.”

“And you don't think that makes my wanting to do it a little suspect?”

“Ah. No. If you wish to share yourself with others, emma lath, you do not hurt me by doing so.”

“So if I took up with Isabela that would be fine,” Carver said aghast. 

“I would be happy for both you,” Merrill said serenely. “Though I can't say I wouldn't ever be a little jealous.”

“Maker's breath,” Carver said.

Merrill shrugged. “As we're talking about it, we might as well talk about it. I would be more worried about other women – you care deeply about family, Carver and I would worry that a child would take you away from me. But there is no such possibility with another man, and I know Isabela takes precautions.” 

“I'm not sure I could be so generous,” Carver said honestly. 

“Well, I can't reach things on high shelves. We're not all made the same, ma sa'lath,” Merrill said practically. 

“I don't know that I actually want that. I certainly don't _need_ it,” Carver argued. 

“What if it was the reverse? What if I came to you and said, 'Emma lath, I have always wished to know what it was like to have a female lover, and I do not wish to hurt you by taking one, but I also do not wish to go all my life without.' Would you grant me one night?”

Of course he would, but somehow he couldn't find the breath to say so. “You... you want to be with me... for the whole of your life?”

Merrill nodded agreeably. “I understand if you are not so certain. I know that humans move more slowly than elves on some matters.”

“No, that's – that's not it at all, Merrill,” Carver said. He hadn't thought about it before, but suddenly he could picture it so easily. Not the manor house and titles Sister hoped to win back for Mother, but a little cottage, somewhere like Lothering. Merrill growing herbs in the garden, maybe running a little school-room, while he put food on their table with the strength of his back, instead of his sword arm. Children – little dark-haired, elf-featured children; mage-born, some of them, probably, possibly their daughter, the one they'd named for her aunt... 

“Are you all right, Carver?” Merrill asked gently. 

“Yes,” he swallowed. “And _yes_ , Merrill, I want that too.” Oh, Maker, how he wanted it. Most likely, he'd never have it, but just to have her, for as long as he could... “and yes, to your other question.”

She nodded. “So you see? It's not a hardship, and you do me no wrong to desire this. But you said yes, no, yes, and no – so what is it that is putting off, emma lath?”

He opened his mouth. “You really should tell me what those mean, Merrill. 'Endearment' covers a lot in our little group.”

Merrill laughed. “I suppose they do. 'Emma lath' means 'my love'.”

 _My love_. He should have guessed that. It filled his heart to hear the word warm from her lips. “And the rest of them? Emma... emma vhenan and vhenan... is it vhenan'ara? And the new one... emma sa'lath?”

“Ma sa'lath,” Merrill corrected fondly. “Vhenan is desire.”

“So emma vhenan is 'my desire'?” Carver said.

“Yes,” Merrill said, leaning forward to kiss him. 

“And vhenan'ara?”

“Heart's desire,” Merrill said, moving to nibble his ears, though they were neither as sensitive nor as attractive as her own. 

“Ma sa'lath?” Carver managed, breath growing shorter as he shifted in his seat. 

“Yes, Carver?” she whispered, then looked up, stricken. “Oh, you were still asking! Creators, sorry! I just... when we talked. Ah.” She looked down at her hands. 

He wasn't expecting that reaction. “Does it mean something like 'spouse'?” Carver asked, confused. It couldn't, could it? He tried to remember what they'd been talking about when she said it. 

“I suppose,” Merrill said softly. “It means 'my one love'.”

“Oh, Merrill,” Carver said, drawing her close. “You are my ma sa'lath too. I don't need another.”

“No! No, Carver, that's not what I meant. You should have your night, and many others if you wish them. I put no bindings on you.”

“What if – what if I want to be bound to you?”

“Then we will discuss that when you tell me what the second no meant. You can't make a proper decision yet. What is it about what your desire that you fear?”

It was his turn to look down at his hands. “That it will hurt, I guess. But I'm pretty sure that's not even what I'll be asked to do. Bran implied that I would be the one doing the fucking, not the one getting fucked. Though Bran also implied he'd happily pay for my ass, too.” 

“It doesn't have to hurt,” Merrill said shaking her head. 

“That's what Sister says. And I suppose she'd know,” Carver said morosely.

“It doesn't,” Merrill insisted. “In fact, it's even more pleasurable for men.” Carver's confusion must have shown, because she continued. “Inside the male body there's a gland, about the size of a walnut. I can show you.”

Carver almost choked. “How – what – how do you know this Merrill?”

“Oh,” Merrill said. “Well, I'm no healer, not like Anders, but all Keepers know a bit of medicine. And sometimes males need help with such things.”

Wait – there was a part of his body that he hadn't even known he had until today, and there were things that could go wrong with it. “Are you sure this isn't something only elves have, Merrill?”

“Pretty sure. We can breed together, so our parts must all be much the same,” she said blithely. “But it's an easy enough question to answer.” She looked at him expectantly. “Halla have them too.”

He blinked at her. “Talking to you is an education, Merrill,” he said.

She beamed at him. “Let's get your pants off.”

Which, coming from her mouth was one of his favorite phrases, but he couldn't say he didn't have some misgivings about this. But the misgivings were counterbalanced by her infectious curiosity, so he stood. “I'm not getting naked in your front room, Merrill, you let anyone walk in.” Another thought struck, and he blushed, and it wasn't at the notion of their friends catching him with his pants down. “And, er, if you're going to be putting your fingers up there, shouldn't I go... have a wash?”

“Oh! If you like,” Merrill said. “You know where the bathing area is. Do you need help?” 

“No! I mean, no, thank you Merrill,” Carver said, cheeks flaming. “I'm sure I'll manage. I'll... join you, in a bit.”

When he did join her, after washing _very_ thoroughly, she had stripped down to her skin, and had opened a pot of some kind of cream. 

“You said it wasn't going to hurt!” he blurted.

“And it won't. I suppose it could, if I wasn't careful, but I'll be very careful, Carver. There's nothing to worry about. And we can stop whenever you feel like.”

He pointed at the open pot. “Why do you need elfroot salve then?”

She followed the line of his finger. “Carver, that's just a base. It doesn't have anything in it. Elfroot would just numb you. You don't want that. You want to be able to feel this.” Suddenly he thought maybe he should wish that it was elfroot. She patted the bed. “Come on. Lay down, front or back, it doesn't matter.”

“It doesn't?” Carver asked confused. 

“Well, it's a bit easier to work out what to do face down, if you're new to it,” Merrill acknowledged. “But I'm not, and it would be nice to watch your face, if you let me.”

He dropped onto the bed on his back, though he wasn't sure that he wouldn't rather hide his face, but she beamed at him, and he managed a smile for her. 

“It's all right to be nervous,” Merrill said. “But if you want to stop, or it feels uncomfortable or you just don't like it, all you have to do is say so. You know I won't judge.”

He nodded, and took a breath, and let his eyes fall closed. He did know that. He settled himself more firmly into the pillows and opened his legs wider as Merrill settled herself between them. But she didn't begin immediately, stroking his thighs and kissing his cock, then licking it, and then just slobbering on it like a mabari with a ham bone. Any sense of self-consciousness she held the rest of the time she let go of in bed when they were just – playing together. She kneaded the inside of his thighs with her fingers, and he felt his hips rise, unconsciously calling for her mouth to swallow him down, but he was surprised when she obliged. 

And then, when he was thrusting away happily into her mouth, he realised that she was circling his entrance with the lightest pressure, and, to his surprise, that it did feel good. It took the edge off his approaching climax to start thinking again, but he couldn't help it; his mind focused all it's attention on that one finger. 

Carver had never been any good with anticipation.

And then that single finger, perfectly slippery with whatever was in that little pot, slid into him, and he gasped. But she must have found what she was looking for, first try, because when she crooked her finger in a “come hither” gesture, three things happened: he felt a burst of pleasure as intense as it was unexpected, he shouted something that was probably meant to be her name but was mostly a jumble of letters, and he came down her throat without the courtesy of a warning. 

After that, as he lay there in a daze, she showed him how to coax open a nether entrance so that it could sheath a cock. As she slipped her fourth finger within him, _three might be enough for you, vhenan'ara, your hands are larger than mine_ , he thought he'd take her whole fist if she wanted to give it to him. 

He'd take anything she wanted to give him.


	9. Chapter 9

Carver only told Sister because Merrill had counselled him to; he recognised the hypocrisy in that, but it was true all the same. He understood better Sister's reluctance to tell him at the first; there was something shameful in it, even now, but more than that, there was something else, some undercurrent of blame he didn't want her to shoulder any more than she'd wanted for him. So he told her, though their situations were completely different. 

Well – maybe not that different. If things went sour with Bran or Dumar, they were in the biggest pile of shit they'd faced since leaving Ferelden. But if he got to play body guard, so did she, so up to the Keep they went together, Merrill's pot of salve in a pouch on Carver's belt. 

Bran smiled to see Carver and Sister enter his office, though he closed the door on the rest of the world. 

“So... your friend,” Carver said. 

“Is still interested, yes,” Bran said. “I have no doubt... certain names have... crossed your mind. I would have to be sure that it would never be spoken off.”

“Of course,” Carver said. “I have no interest in telling.”

“Nor I,” Sister said. “You know it, Bran. Besides, you and I both know that if Carver and I never make it in this town, it would simply be the word of a pair of filthy Ferelden whores, which is worth... half nothing. And if we _do_ make it in this town, well. We'd like to keep it that way, surely. This is a blackmail that cuts both ways, should any party be tempted.”

Bran nodded. “A masterful summation, if I may say so,” Bran said, leaning back against his desk. “Very well. At the end of the long corridor there are a pair of side chambers. Enter the left one, and wait there. A... friend will join you, in time. Serrah Hawke will ensure that you are not disturbed.” He slid 2 gold sovereigns and a key from his pocket. “Are we agreed?”

Carver nodded, taking them. “We are.”

The side chamber was plush, with couches more than large enough for what they needed, but the room was otherwise empty, and Carver began to wish he'd thought to bring something to read before the door opened, and yes, it was Saemus Dumar who walked in. 

“We are more than bodies,” Saemus said quietly as he walked into the centre of the room. 

Carver blinked. He was half-tempted to say, _it's your coin_ , but that was just bluster, and Saemus hadn't done anything to deserve Carver's temper. 

“May I kiss you?” This was asked carefully, politely, from distance of several feet. 

And for the first time, Carver understood why whores were so reluctant to kiss. Part of Carver wanted to say _no_ , too, but he'd kissed plenty of people before Merrill, and some of them he had even less feelings for than he did Saemus. “Yeah, sure,” Carver said, and met him half-way. 

Saemus kissed slowly, tenderly, like he was offering some kind of succour to Carver. 

He offered his body the same way, laying on his side as Carver took him from behind, his cries soft and low, but open-mouthed, with no attempt at concealment. Carver paced himself; it wasn't the same as being inside a woman, but Carver adapted quickly. Saemus seemed to like long, slow strokes the best, so that was what Carver gave him with his cock, and with his hand. As Saemus neared his climax, his head fell back, and Carver felt an absurd swell of affection for the boy. No wonder he ran away, if this was his life. 

Carver managed to hold off until Saemus had spent himself, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the boy's cheek as he did, before letting go. 

They didn't say much, after: Saemus thanked him, but did not ask to kiss him again and Carver left it at that. 

Carver was still trying to figure out what it all meant, later, as he lay awake in the top bunk of the bed shared with his sister, in the tiny house he shared with his family. He didn't feel any different, he thought. A little sadder, maybe, but that was for Saemus, he was almost sure. Oh, Andraste's ass. Anger was so much simpler. This was... this didn't mean anything, not really. 

1 sovereign for Bartrand, 1 towards the house. That's all it meant. 

The next morning there was another mysterious letter on the desk, though this one was definitely for them – no-one would refer to Gamlen as either of "good character” or “unusual ability." The whole thing screamed “trap” to Carver, but letter was laced with the words "the lives of many innocents", which was apparently catnip to Hawkes. Even _he_ felt like they had to do something, and he was sure they were being suckered.

Fortunately, Sister agreed, so they went in with care: him and Fenris, her and Varric. 

Of course, it turned out to be templars and mages _again_. 

They agreed to help Thrask, no problem there. 

And then the mages turned out to be... well, Sister said it best: “Starkhaven Circle? More like Starkraving Circle.” 

When they were finished, finally, with the blood mages and the oily templars, they walked back to town, none of them in a good mood. Carver hadn't liked the look of Karras and his men; he was exactly the kind of templar he'd always feared getting his hands on one of his sisters. 

“Why did you force them into the Circle?” Fenris rumbled from behind them. “I would have expected you to let them flee.”

“I might have,” Sister said grimly, “if the first words out of Grace's mouth weren't a plea for me to commit murder. Not usually the first thing you say to total stranger.”

She'd probably have been helpless against 'help me', even if it had led to murder, but Grace hadn't been that clever. Carver was glad they'd been forced into the Circle, even if he didn't always agree with that, or trust Karras. But he also didn't think for a moment that Decimus was the only blood mage in the group. 

“You could say that it was the first thing I asked of you,” Fenris said.

“After I'd already been attacked by your hunters,” Sister snorted. “In her case, I'd already been attacked by her blood mage lover, and faced an ashen-faced apprentice who wanted to flee back to the templars thanks to what they were getting up to in there. Let's just say I had some misgivings about the whole thing.”

“And now?” Fenris continued. 

Sister sighed. “I still have misgivings.”

“Well, I have good news, kids,” Varric said jovially. “If Thrask comes up with the gold –”

“He will,” Fenris said darkly. “No templar is stupid enough to cross a Dwarven merchant.”

“That's right, Broody,” Varric laughed. “That's just bumped us up over the magical gold line.”

Carver's head snapped around so fast it hurt. “Really?”

“Really, Junior,” Varric said, grinning.

Sister, when he looked back at her, was smiling. 

She wasn't smiling when they left the Gallows. Oh, they were so careful. _She_ was so careful. He gave her shit about it, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her do anything stupid. 

But Karras must have guessed it, or sensed it, or maybe she hadn't been careful _enough_ in front of Grace and her ilk. Because when they were waiting in the courtyard for Thrask, Karras came up to them. 

Carver braced for awkward conversation that left him feeling dirty, but it was so much worse than that. It didn't even take long; Cullen saw them too and started over, and Karras had enough sense to shove off, but not before he asked Sister, “Hawke, isn't it? I know a curious thing about hawks. Hunting birds, dangerous, beautiful, fierce. But do you know what the collective noun for them is? I just learned it today.” He eyed the approaching knight-captain and leaned closer. “It's a cauldron.” 

Karras smirked at them and bowed at Cullen; Cullen frowned at Karras' back, but said nothing of it to them. It was just as well. Carver wasn't sure what they could come up with as an explanation. Carver thought Cullen had a kind of regard for Sister, in his own way. He'd known their Amell cousin, from his Ferelden Circle days and seemed fond of her, too. But somehow, Carver thought it wouldn't be enough to protect Sister, not if Karras got his hands on her. Not if he could prove she was a mage. 

But Cullen just thanked them for their help, and handed over the gold, and instructed the Maker to turn his gaze upon them. 

Sister returned this politely, and then they got out of there as fast as wasn't suspicious, but the ferry ride back to the Docks was silent. 

By the time they were in Hightown she was almost herself again, or close enough to fool anyone who hadn't grown up with her, close enough to win Bartrand over, though that had less to do with her charm and more to do with the gold and maps she was providing. 

“I'll tell Mother,” she said on the steps up to Gamlen's house. “You go tell Merrill.”

He supposed he did have to tell her about the gold, that the expedition was going to happen, finally, but that's not what he why he wanted to speak to her. He had so much else to tell her. 

“Ma'arlath, ma sa'lath,” Carver said as he embraced Merrill. _I love you, my one love_. “It's done.”

Merrill smiled up at him. “Did you like it?”

He nodded. “Well enough.”

Her face turned serious. “Will you do it again, do you think?”

Carver paused. “If – if it was that or starve, yes. Or let you or Sister or Mother starve.”

“I don't mean for coin, Carver,” Merrill said. “I meant it when I said I would force no bond on you.”

“And I meant what I said when I told you I would accept it freely.”

“Ma emma lath, ma sa'lath,” Merrill breathed. _You are my love, my one love._

“And you are mine, Merrill,” Carver said, “if you'll have me.”

Merrill kissed him, and he opened his mouth, letting her take them wherever it was she wanted to go. 

When the kiss ended, he confessed, “We paid Bartrand today.”

“So the expedition is going ahead?”

“Down the hole and into the deep,” Carver agreed. 

“That's exciting,” Merrill said. 

“Things will change when we get back,” Carver said. “I don't know how, exactly. I have this fantasy of us, a little plot of land to call our own. Not too far out of town, obviously. Wouldn't want to miss card night.”

“I like the sound of that,” Merrill said. 

“I wish I could stay,” Carver said.

“No,” Merrill said. “It would be too much like goodbye, I think, ma sa'lath. Go pack your things, and get a good night's rest, and I'll see you when you return.”

They embraced again, and kissed on the doorstep, and Carver tried not to even think of goodbyes as they did, and then he walked back to Gamlen's, where he would sleep, he hoped, for the final time.

But what he walked into was anything but restful; Mother was pleading with Sister not to take him, begging like her heart was breaking. 

“Andraste's arse, Mother!" Carver said.

"Language, Carver!" Mother said. 

"No. I'm not a child any more, for you to dictate to. And I'm not Sister's pet mabari, either! It's Gamlen's house, and he doesn't fucking care."

"Darling, please," Mother said, but not to him, of course not. "Tell your brother I'm right."

Sister looked at them for a long moment, her face shuttered. "I'm going to bed." And then she did. 

Carver was speechless for just a moment more, and then he made a beeline for the tiny room they shared. She was already sitting on the bottom bunk, pulling off her boots. She looked up at him as he entered.

"I've earned the right to go just as much as you. As much as anyone! And I want to go. Unlike some people you're no doubt considering."

"The fact that Anders – who has actually been to the deep roads – desperately wants to avoid going is a sign of how bad an idea this is, Carver. Do you really think _I'd_ be going if it could be avoided?"

"But –" Carver was confused. Sister had worked so hard for this. She sounded so tired now. "We don't have to go. I mean, being whores isn't going to get us back the manor in Hightown, but it'll keep food in our bellies." It surprised him, how little it bothered him now. That he was a whore. That his sister was. Their friends – their _people_ didn't care, and no one else mattered. It could buy them time to find something else, at any rate. Apprenticeships were hard to come by for Fereldens, it was true... maybe the mine? The place was a death trap, though... 

Perhaps Aveline would reconsider? He'd helped her bust Jeven. She credited Sister with that, he knew, but he also knew she didn't like the whoring. Or – he could join the templars. It would be difficult, but it might be enough. Cullen would take him, he thought. 

"It's not about that, Carver," Sister said. "We're so completely at the mercy of the templars, and all the people who know what I am. We've been lucky. Flames, Carver. After that business with Harimann and Meeran, I'm surprised the templars haven't already come calling."

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. This was why he wasn't the brains of their operation. He didn't even mind that part so much, as long as he got to be part of the operation. "Well, I'll go. You stay home. Keep out of sight till I get back."

Sister shook her head. "I can't do that either," she said.

Carver bristled. "I am not completely incompetent without you there to hold my hand, you know."

"I do know," she said softly. "You survived Ostagar, Carver. You made it back to Lothering by yourself, the darkspawn horde on your heels."

"I – oh." He had done that. But in a way, those were just things he'd had to do. Like so much else, really. Nobody else had ever seemed to notice. 

"I have to go because it's just a question of when someone turns me into the templars. Hell, you know some of the templars already know. Thrask knows. _Karras_ knows, and it's plain that he has blackmail in mind. Cullen... I'm sure he suspects. I'm sure he's almost sure. When he makes up his mind, it won't be enough to be a noble again. Templars rip mages from noble families all the time. They did it to cousin Revka. I'll have to be something more."

"The head of the family," Carver said, biting back the bitterness. He knew it was a silly prejudice that men should head families, and truthfully, he thought he'd chafe under his sibling's rule had he had a brother rather than a sister.

"That might help," she shrugged. "That is the sort of thing that would annoy Kirkwall's nobility. Maybe enough for the templars to turn a blind eye so long as I was discreet. But how long really could I keep that up? Too many people already know. And if it was a choice of survival, now, and risk being caught by the templars, later, versus not – well. You already know what I'd pick. But if I come back from the deep roads drowning in a dragon's horde of wealth, buy back our home, buy back our title –"

"One of Varric's mythic heroes," Carver said, getting it. That might work, actually. Audacity often did, even in Kirkwall.

"Yes." 

"You'd still have to be discreet." And do something about Karras, probably. 

"Maker knows I try." Sister took a breath. "Carver, regardless of what Mother says: it's up to you. Bartrand says the money earns me three spots, I can bring who I like. But you're right. You've been there beside me the whole way. You've more than earned your place if you want it."

Carver nodded. "So who's our third?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to everyone who has read my little tale - I'm no Varric (who is?) but I hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with it.


End file.
